Survivors from the Mists

Not being a 'landlubber' much anymore, Anna was about to say something flippant about running into the jungle alone but decided to skip it for reasons of sanity. Just be careful, Sarah. We don't know what's out there.
She then opens up her bag and pulls out her armor and shield and sets about to get them on.

Anna jumps visibly from Flick's outburst and starts coughing as the smoke from the fire goes directly past her. What is it with that boy? And once she gets her breathing back, Need help with that, Flick? I don't know a lick about it, but I'm willing to help out with whatever.

Staring at Anna's general direction through the smoke, Flick asks, "Do you know anything about building an Empire-Class Fire Nation battle ship? And by that I mean a shelter. I'm not very good at the whole manual dexterity thing. And by manual dexterity, I mean plate tectonics."

Not waiting for an answer, he goes back to his plume of smoke, trying to gauge just how high it will get in this weather.

Sarah heads off into the jungle edge, spear in hand as Flick sets about on his fire building exercise.

Whilst in the jungle, Sarah does... things!

Um, no I don't know what you mean by that. Are you talking about a frigate or galleon? What are tectonics? I'm going to go collect some things for a shelter. You going to be okay alone?



Anna heads over to the edge of the forest and begins to collect some of the large fronds, some fairly thick branches, and some thin branches. I hope these things are what you need for a shelter.

Not knowing much else about survival tactics, Flick scratches his head wondering what to do. He had heard somewhere that latrines were useful in for keeping animals away, but he had no shovel. His shield and morningstar didn't seem to be of much use.

In the end, he decides his best course of action is to pluck as much tall grass as he can from the surrounding area as possible. Sleeping on the ground was fine and all, but he preferred not having to lie in the dirt. As he began pulling up grass by the handfuls, he sang quietly to himself. And as he sang, he wondered when Sarah would get back with the food. He was hungry.

The shelter building proceeds apace, in the couple of hours she worked on it Anna was able to miraculously cobble together a serviceable, if small, lean-to. It wouldn't last long in a major downpour or a wind of any kind, but if it rained tonight whomever was lucky enough to be beneath it would stay reasonably dry. The problem was the size. One person could squeeze under it completely, two could squeeze under it together if they left their feet and legs outside, but three isn't really an option. Flick's bed is a disaster. He would pull up handfuls of grass only to find them blown hither and yon by freak winds. Setting a rock on the pile didn't help, the rock simply rolled off and then the grass blew away.

As the sun began to set Sarah returned to the makeshift camp triumphantly. A small boar, not much older than a piglet, and a monkey hang on a rough spit, dressed and ready for roasting.

Looking somewhat content with her effort, Sarah strolls nonchalantly back to the little makeshift camp, spit and a few additional branches braced over her shoulder with her spear, some coils of vine looped around the sticks, as well as a bundle of fur, and some of those broad leaves. The heavy plume of smoke coming from the fire makes for a great beacon, and even though she comes out of the treeline some hundred yards away, she has no trouble finding the camp.

Taking a glance at the lean-to, Sarah remarks cheerfully, "Looks like the shelter's coming along quite nicely!" Dropping most of her bounty on the ground (and jamming the actual spit upright), she takes a handaxe from her belt, and begins to trim two of the other forked branches, to make a brace for the spit of meat. Before too long, the monkey and boar are cooking over the fire, Sarah giving them an occasional turn, to make sure they're evenly done.

While the meat cooks, Sarah sets to some of the more supple vines and the smaller monkey skin, working on

Craft (Weapon), -2 for improvised tools:
Dice Roll: 1d20-1
d20 Results: 6 (Total = 5)

crafting a few crude slings, while desperately casting her mind about for a conversational topic that isn't so forced and awkward to bring up. C'mon, Sarah, you are literally marooned on a jungle island, with these people as the only human companionship that exists. You're going to have to learn small talk at some point. The mental reminder of their predicament, though, sobers up her thoughts quickly. This wasn't just another rough night on the road to Magnimar, was it.

Clearing her throat a little, and turning the spit again, Sarah pipes up. "So, what should our next step be? I think we should look for a source of fresh water, just in case..." She trails off here, realizing that both Anna has told her and Flick has demonstrated that they're capable of creating water with magic. Flushing lightly with embarassment, she hurriedly continues, "...all magic in the world fails or something stupid like that. But, should we stay up here where we can see any approaching ships, or should we look for a beach, try and build a boat and sail ourselves on out of here?"

I'm going to assume that nothing but a dagger and whatever she can scrounge out of her bowyer's kit without breaking it would count as improvised tools for making slings, so I've already added the -2 penalty to the check.

Giving up on his make-shift bed, Flick resigns himself to sleeping under the hollow of a tree. At least it didn't appear as though it would rain tonight. He once heard somewhere that the way the smoke from a campfire blows is a tell-tale sign of tomorrow's weather. Something about the precipitation in the air bogging it down or something. No matter. He had slept in worse conditions.

Still, he enjoyed the warmth of the fire and moved near to it as Sarah began cooking the meat. Unfortunately, his desire for intimacy is not reciprocated as the smokey fire does everything in its power to blow in his face regardless of where he moves. Finally, he takes on a new approach, one where he lies prone next to the fire. "Blow smoke at me now, villain!" he mocks.

In comedic fashion, one of the logs snaps with an audible crack sending a single spark straight into Flick's hair. Smacking himself in the head to put out the small flame that erupts, Flick ends up tripping over a stone and planting his face into the scattered bushels of grass he had previously attempted to gather. While this action extinguishes the fire in his hair, it sets alight the ground about his head...

* * * * *

Several minutes and numerous misadventures later, Flick sits back down at the campfire now with a black eye, several abrasions across his hands, some sort of purple goo on the seat of his pants, and of course, and a royally singed coiffure. "I say we explore the island," he offers, the very image of nonchalance.

As Flick sits down, Sarah completely fails to remove the dumb-founded look from her face, jaw still hanging open slightly. Even replaying the sequence of events over in her mind, she's not sure what she just watched. Is this man dangerously insane? Or just incredibly unlucky?

Still not trusting her voice quite yet (although she does manage to get her mouth closed), she just looks over at Anna wordlessly.